The Prettiest Flower

The prettiest flower is
Is always picked first
From someone's flowerpot
In their kitchen,
Or their bedroom,
Or the desk by the entrance,
To be marveled,
To be admired,
And ultimately forgotten
After satisfaction is reached.
No one asks for the flower,
"Where is your home?"

'On the other side
Of the sea, I suppose
Would be the answer
But why I wouldn't know,
Because I've never asked.
I've asked the seller
And they name some country
I had never been to
Or cared for,
Because it wasn't my own

But now that flower is popular,
Common place in any flowerpot,
To the point that the flower
Might as well have called here
It's home, Does it want to?
I don't know, I haven't asked.

Overtime
The flower grew less admired
And became stuck mostly
Amongst poorer homes,
Fighting for water and affection.
Desperation wilts the prettiest flowers,
And overtime,
The flower became vilified,
It's beauty hadn't diminished,
It's demand had,
Maybe if we talked
And understood each other
Demand will be supplied
And it's beauty recognized,
But I wouldn't know,
I haven't asked.

A few flowers escaped,
Back into more esteemed houses,
And they were viewed as pretty
Once again. The others
were different- in some way,
I don't know- but those
Found in richer environments
Were the good ones. That is
What the news tells me
In it's multitude of mixed weeds,
With mixed meanings
And mixed motives
Maybe I could see if they were
Different, if I asked, but I didn't

The prettiest flowers are always picked,
And they are always neglected.
The prettiest flowers are everywhere,
Worthy of admiration and respect,
But I wonder sometimes,
Whether the dream to speak with
The prettiest flower is just a dream?
I mean
Could I ever understand a flower?
And I could,
Could I help others understand its words,
And could others,
Learn to understand prettiest flower too
Or will we forever
Just watch each
Till we all wilt away....

- Khushi Kaul